


by any other name

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fenris/Isabela - Freeform, Ficlet Collection, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Romance, Tamlen/Lenya Mahariel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do not share a family or a faith.  And yet, they have more in common than either ever expected.  </p><p>One-shots primarily written in response to prompts on <a href="http://faejilly.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>.  Mostly PWP, with a little bit of characterization.  Occasionally.</p><p>Not in any particular order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the opportune moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [taokan](http://taokan.tumblr.com) prompted: Merrill/Sebastian, time between raindrops.

At first she’d wondered what was wrong with her, finding aesthetic appeal in a _shem_ , in hair that shined a richer brown than bark in the sun, in the glint of eyes bluer than any sky through dappled leaves, in the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his breath when he paused before he took a shot.  He was as good an archer as any dalish hunter, though it had pained her to admit it, at first.

Now though, she had to wonder what was wrong with all the other people, to let him pass amongst them without indulging his craving for touch.  Every time she reached out, he leaned in closer, a purr in his voice and a light in his eyes, and he could spend an entire day quiet by her side, pleased at the brush of her leg or her arm against him as the ‘marks passed.  She could never get enough of him, his hair between her fingers, his skin beneath her hands, the impossible sweetness of his smile as his attention shifted from her hands to her eyes to her mouth when she talked.

She adored his laugh as well, even when it sputtered out, rough and damp, as they were caught in a sudden squall of rain, without a tree taller than his shoulders in view, or even an overhang of rock wide enough to huddle under, stuck as they were in the middle of a stretch of sandy dunes and crumbling stone breaks.

The rain blew away almost as quickly as it had appeared, but not before they were both drenched, leather straps turning dark, droplets catching on the edges of scales and mail, a trickle down the back of her neck, a drop slipping down his nose, her braids dripping past her ears, his usually neat hair slipping and sticking to his cheeks.

She giggled as he went rather cross-eyed, staring at the drop lingering at the tip of his nose and refusing to fall.

She pulled on the strap of his quiver, and he bent over obligingly, his lips quirking into a smile as the drop shivered but still didn’t fall, and she rocked up on her toes to lift herself past the edge of his gorget, and licked the water off his nose, one quick flick of her tongue.

He made a startled sound in the back of his throat, so close to the grunt he made when she climbed in his lap that she felt it, a sharp tension in the muscles across her stomach, a sudden blossoming of heat between her legs.

So she kissed him, leaning in with all her weight, firm and insistent with the push of her lips, her tongue sliding in just enough to make him gasp, to lean in more, to deepen the kiss, on and on, until her head was spinning and her toes were curling in damp sand, and she had to grip firmly at his shoulders to keep her balance.

His hands lay flat against her cheeks, palms cool and strong as they slid back into her hair, scattering drops of water against her ears and neck, taking advantage of every shiver in reaction to the cool water to trail a nail or finger tip against her ears and make her shiver again with heat.

When she pushed herself back at last, desperate to breathe, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dark, and all she could think was that he was thick and large enough her whole body ached, full and breathless, when his cock was inside her.  But while he was more than strong enough to bear her weight on his arms without a hint of strain, his breastplate made climbing up his chest and wrapping her legs around his hips into an uncomfortable prospect.

She ignored the panels of mail to tug at his belt and he groaned, hips shifting and eyes closing as she slid a hand beneath his waistband, a bit of a moan of her own escaping at the heat, the glide of taut skin beneath her fingers, the weight of him against her palm as she pushed his smalls and trousers down.

His hips jerked forward when she stroked, a hiss of breath the only sound he made, but her skin was too dry, pulling on his, and she shifted her grip to palm the head of his cock, catching and spreading the moisture beading at the tip along her hand.

"Let me help," he murmured, and she thought he had some salve in one of his many pouches, but instead of reaching for his belt his hand slid up the inside of her thigh, under her tunic, past the edges of her mail, using his knuckles to push hard against the heat of her through the thin stretch of her smalls.  She couldn't stop a soft gasp of breath, the shift of weight to spread her thighs a little wider, the jerk of her arm causing him to gasp with her.

She shuddered at the rub of his thumb, slipping under cloth to rub directly against her skin, picking up slick until he glided easily, circling until he found just the right angle and her body jerked, and her next gasp was louder, rougher, inspiring a soft hum of approval from his throat.

She shifted her grip, leaned in close and pressed just a little harder, until his eyes closed and his hum grew ragged, and then it was a contest, of wills, of hands, of pleasure, bodies angled and hands busy and she threw her head back when it began to rain again, the cool wash of water against her skin, the heat of her blood beneath it, the press of his fingers and the sound of his voice and the feel of his cock against her hand.  And she wasn't sure if she won, or she lost, but his hips moved and he spilled, hot between her fingers, and his finger pushed inside her, up and up, his thumb pushing harder, _harder,_ she loved how he pushed when she asked, _always more_ , and her free hand was braced against his chest as her eyes closed and her body tightened and the heat of his breath and his seed on her skin was nothing to the heat of her body clenching around his hand.

He kissed the tip of her ear, and she shivered, hot and cold chasing down her skin, and he lifted her hand to lick it clean and she moaned, eyes almost shut and lips parting, and she tugged on his arm to lift his hand to her mouth, and she cleaned his fingers of her slick. He tugged on her hair, just enough, and they kissed again, tasting each other, slick and seed and lips and tongues, and she nipped at his bottom lip before she settled back down on her heels.

They straightened her clothes, and tucked him back into his trousers, and she laughed up into the sky when the rain trailed off again, and sunlight speared through the clouds enough to make the water on them sparkle.


	2. too tall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "forehead kiss" requested by [thelastgreatpoolparty](http://thelastgreatpoolparty.tumblr.com/)

"You’re too tall."

"I’m … sorry?"

Merrill smiled, small and sweet, and her eyes caught the light with a spark and a shine as she shook her head.  "No, no, there’s no need for an apology, don’t be sorry, just …"  She curled her finger, _come here._

He obliged, bending over until his face was in front of hers, feeling an answering smile curve his mouth, just a little.  "Yes?"

She rocked up onto the balls of her feet, her hands resting against his cheeks, slim and strong and warm, and he closed his eyes at the feel of her lips, a soft kiss against his forehead.

He sighed, as her fingers slid away from his skin, and opened his eyes to see her smiling still, though it was different now, soft and almost sad.  

"What was that for?" His voice felt rough and uneven, wool whispering out of his throat.

"You looked sad.  And your hand was in the pouch you keep the locket in.  I thought it might help?"

He swallowed, and blinked again, and let the chain slip between his fingers, reached out his now free hand to gently touch her cheek.  "Thank you."

The spark in her eyes came back as her smile widened.


	3. emissary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [yarnandtea](http://yarnandteaisallineed.tumblr.com) prompted: "If it's not too late for prompts--Seb and Merrill, AU where the elves still rule Thedas?"

He was human, so of course it was silly to expect the same sort of sense as one would get from an elf, especially as he was faithful to their prophet cult, as if One Maker could have made a world that it took Nine Creators to manage.  But he was surprisingly respectful, bright blue eyes clear enough to support his claim for a desire for honest trade between his Chantry and their Clan.  She supposed it couldn’t hurt to listen to his offer.


	4. morning before coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an anonymous tumblr prompt: f!Sebastian/Merrill, Modern AU - County fair

It could not be morning already, no, she refused, she’d stayed up much too late translating the most recently discovered apocrypha claiming to be part of Shartan’s Book, and she was not going to have anything to do with that sunlight trying to sneak under her pillow, no thank you, Creators,  _no._

A warm hand slid down her back, an even warmer voice, disturbingly alert, speaking out above her. “Are you getting up?  Because if not, I’ll have to leave without you."

Merrill considered.  Quite a bit, actually.  Sleep versus  _crowds and shouting and over-priced greasy food and that horrible creaking sound the ferris wheel makes in the wind._   But completely empty bed versus an entire day together?  And after judging the 4-H archery contest Tienne would be part of the exhibition match, and her uniform did such things to her hips, and she was always extra handsy after a decent competition…

Merrill rolled over with a groan.  "Coffee first?"


	5. sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [littlevisibledelight](http://littlevisibledelight.tumblr.com/) asked you:
>
>> merrill/mahariel(/tamlen?) - sensation play with arrow fletching, maybe with a da2 sebrill reprise?
> 
> _ So, this was supposed to be a smut prompt. And there’s a reference to sex in the middle, but it’s really a sad sort of moment instead of anything really NSFW.   _
> 
> _ Grief seems to be where my muse defaults quite frequently. _
> 
> _ Probably part of the reason Sebastian and Merrill speak to me so; they have a lot of grieving to do. _

Merrill let her fingers rest just along the tips of the barbs, the feather soft against her skin, just stiff enough to hold up beneath her touch.  Like and yet unlike the arrows of her former life, materials bought from carpenters and butchers, rather than salvaged and hunted from the forest itself.  And yet, Sebastian took much the same care as any dalish when he was fletching, head tilted and eyes narrowed as he focused entirely on his task.

She pressed just a little harder, watched the feather spread out until she could see light through the gaps, the sharp pang of memory making each beat of her heart hurt much as it had all those years ago.

* * *

 

_She tries not to smile at the way they look at each other.  There has been no talk of hand-fasting, of promises, and they should be talking to his parents, or the Keeper, not just each other.  But they seem so happy, shared smiles and the not quite casual brush of fingers over meals, and Merrill has not the heart to scold them._

_She doesn't realize it's more than that, already, until the day she discovers them in a clearing, sees the sun shift, dappled shadows moving across the skin of Tamlen's back, Lenya's eyes closing as her body curves beneath him, pushing up against his chest, and Merrill's eyes go wide, her hand covering her mouth as she stares, for just a breath, shock and heat and a curl of something in her chest she cannot name, before she thinks to turn away and leave them to their privacy._

_If she tells on them now, she will have to admit she knew and didn't speak up sooner, and the something in her chest grows tighter, wrapping around heart and lungs until it is hard to even think, and she goes back to her_ aravel _alone, and keeps silent._

 _Lenya comes to see her not long after, lifted eyebrows and whispered breath,_ what is wrong, lethallan,  _and Merrill tells her that she is not sure that what they are doing is right, they should hold to what traditions they have, respect their elders' wishes, and Lenya laughs, and leans in closer, and when Merrill would jerk away she places her palms, smooth and warm against her cheeks, and holds her still, and kisses her, soft and slow and sweet, and the ache in Merrill's chest is hot now, beautiful and painful and wonderful, and her lips part and she sighs against Lenya's skin._

_There is such pleasure in her touch._

How can this be wrong?

 _The next night Tamlen joins them, and they are so warm, so strong, and it’s more than warmth, it’s_ play, _and it soothes a sorrow she never knew she carried, always so serious, so determined, studied and studying._

_He trails the feather at the base of an arrow along her ear to make her shiver, down her neck to make her laugh.  It tickles against her breast, catches slightly on her nipple, and strokes just right along her hip to make her whole body jerk, lifting up off the ground, and Lenya laughs, and holds her down, and dips her head between her legs.  His hands are hot against her skin, his lips firm as he kisses her mouth, as Lenya kisses her between her thighs, and she has never felt like this before, connected and cherished and wanted._

_But though they are the best of friends, though they open up the world of lovers to her eyes, the heat that builds between the touch of skin to skin, the way a kiss can be warm or hot or soft or wet or all at once, a firm press of emotion for which there are no words, only more kisses, they never look at her the way they look at each other._

_Which is for the best, of course, she is First, she is not destined for the same life they hope to have together.  They are already so close to her, so important, friends and lovers that she can not help but cherish more than all the rest of their Clan.  It is best that they are not also in love with her.  Of course she is not in love with them.  She would never be so foolish._

_It is already too much._

It is not enough.

_And so she tries to stay away, sometimes, to return to her duties, to her lessons, to remind herself she must care for all her people, not especially for the two of them who make her heart beat so fast she feels someday she might learn how to fly like a hummingbird, swift and delicate and powerful._

_To give them time to be in love._

_And so she is not with them the day they meet the human, the day they find the cave, the day it all ends._

_The day Tamlen disappears._

_The day Lenya dies._

* * *

 

“Shh.” His voice was warm beside her, the thumb that slowly slid across her cheek, gathering tears and wiping them away, was even warmer.  “Should I not use goose feathers, then?”  The words were light, but his accent was thicker than usual, and his fingers tightened against her jaw.  He leaned in to give her a kiss and lingered, lips pressed to her forehead, long enough she could feel the exhale of breath from his nose against her skin, warm and heavy.

She curled in towards him, face pressed against his chest, sniffing through a nose gone thick and full, trying not to feel the weight of tears attempting to escape her eyes.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered. ”I don’t understand, why today, why now, why does it hurt again, all of a sudden, as if I might turn around and see them again, waiting for me, when I know I never could-“

His body was tense beside her, for just a breath, and then he pulled them both to the ground, and she curled into his lap, his arms wrapped around her.  “I don’t know.”  His voice was rough against her hair, barely loud enough to carry.  “They like to say time heals such pain, but I think it just shifts.  And sometimes it shifts close again, when we least expect it.”

She almost laughed, bitter and sharp, her fingers curled into his shirt, grip tight enough the fabric almost hurt, too taut against her skin.  The only other soul she’d ever met who knew what it was like to lose not just a family, but a Clan, a place, a purpose, twice over.

The only person who had ever held her when she missed them.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever cried for them before, not truly, too determined to learn something from the pain to let it happen.  His hand stroked up and down her back, and she closed her eyes, and let the tears come, and let them go.


	6. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an anonymous prompt: Merrill and Sebastian find the merits of all the spare candles the Chantry discards...

He had some experience with the vagaries of candle wax. The way it caught against itself, the way it would puddle when you wanted it to flow, would drip when you wanted it to stay, the way the overflow stuck and stained, especially the bright red they used in the Chantry.

It had ruined more than one working robe, back when he’d been an initiate, and then a Brother.

And now, now he knew how it made her skin flinch, made her breath catch, her back curving with her soft moans as he poured, the candle high enough the wax would cool a bit in the air, the edge notched  just so to let him pour slowly enough to make thin controlled swirls down her spine.

"Oh," she cried out, an extra jerk of muscles as wax reached the soft swell of her arse, "that feels so good, why does it feel so good," and her words trailed off into another moan as the wax teased along the sides of her hips and thighs.

She made a high pitched sort of keen, another jerk of surprise as he shifted his grip and let wax trail towards inner thighs instead of outer. He saw her fingers curl in the blanket beneath her, and her hips lifted, rising up closer to the flame of the candle, and he poured a little faster, watched the lines thicken, watched the wax shine as it took longer to cool, listened to her breathing speed up at the increase in heat, her muscles tensing along her back as she curved and crested and curved again, her body more beautiful than any curl of smoke rising from the more mundane use of tapers.

He could not, in the joy of this night, consider the Chantry’s use of them more proper, nor the songs he’d left behind more beautiful than her voice crying out his name.


	7. Court Apparel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [littlevisibledelight](http://littlevisibledelight.tumblr.com) requested: sebastian returning to starkhaven as prince post-da2, and merrill accompanying him as both a friend and adviser! possible kink: semi-clothed sex (preferably in fancy court dress with merrill not wearing shoes)

Sebastian could hear the slight whisper of silk behind him, and wished more than anything that he could risk glancing back, that he could watch the way Merrill’s skirts shifted around her, could admire the sleek subtle curve of her bodice, the way the heavy gold chain of office he’d granted her contrasted against lace that was almost as pale as her skin.

Goran’s semi-benign neglect after they’d cut the Harimanns’ strings had almost caused multiple riots in Starkhaven’s poorer quarters, had driven away the dalish clans the City had used to trade with … appointing an elf to his reformed Court had met with surprisingly little public resistance, and few enough grumbling whispers he could work around them.

Obviously no one could know she was a recovering blood mage.  She wore long sleeves now, and heavy golden bracelets that settled against her wrists to keep the fabric from riding up and hinting at the scars she was hiding.

Keeping their affaire a secret was much less important; the nobility would not begrudge him such an indulgence, as long as he kept it discreet.

Staring at her all night would not be discreet.

But he’d never seen her in such finery before, and it was difficult to keep the heat from his eyes when he thought about how she would feel, her lace catching against his skin, the heat of her warm even through the smooth glide of silk, the shiver of her body beneath the cloth, almost hidden from sight but clear against his palm when he touched her.

He could only be thankful for the thick brocade of his own formal wear, the heavy hang of his doublet half-way down his thighs to hide the tightness of his hose when he lingered too long on such imaginings.

It was only at the turn of the night, when the music slowed and the crowds started to thin, more overt politicking giving way to flirting and drinking and gossiping and quiet plotting in shadowed corners, that she slipped up beside him, and tilted her head with a smile, and asked him to dance.

He was careful not to pull her too close, though he could not quite suppress the catch of his breath at the feel of her hip beneath his hand, at the light pressure of her hand against his shoulder, at the grip of her fingers in his, at the heat in her eyes as he took advantage of the one benefit of their decorum and let his gaze linger down the length of her, now that she was close enough no one else would be able to see what he was admiring.

Even with his attention thoroughly focused on her, he almost missed the glimpse of a bare toe when her skirts swirled up, just a bit, as they spun around the edge of the dance floor.

"No shoes?"  He managed to keep his voice light, but her smile flashed across her face as his hands tightened against her, and he was quite sure she knew how difficult he was finding it to maintain the semblance of his composure.

"I thought, if I had to wear such a silly outfit, I should take advantage of it, and avoid all of the other inane things your Court seems to think I should wear."

"All?"  He felt his eyebrows lift.  She was actually very thoroughly covered, gloves past her elbows and silk skirts past her ankles; even the slim proud line of her neck was shadowed by lace.

"Mmm," she made a happy little humming sound, her fingers gripping firmly into his shoulder before she leaned in closer, just enough to make sure he’d hear her.  "I don’t have anything else on at all besides my gloves and this ridiculous dress."

He almost stumbled, and he almost growled, and despite his best intentions his face obviously did _something,_ because her eyes widened and he saw her chest lift with her breath, and they were quite suddenly slipping out the side of the hall towards one of the receiving rooms.

He heard the latch click as she pushed him back against the door, a greedy whine in her throat as she pressed her palm to his groin, fingers curling beneath his balls, the heel of her hand sliding against his achingly hard cock.

His hips jerked up, his body more under her control than his own, each breath a full-body shudder, his fingers curling at his sides as she rocked up on her toes and nipped at his jaw.

“ _Creators._ " Her voice was light and breathy against his neck, more than enough to make his cock throb beneath her hand, "have you been hard like this all night?"

"Yes," his breath escaped him, more a whine of need than a proper word.

She was pressed so close he could feel the shiver down her spine, the brush of her lashes against his cheek when she tilted her head. Her free hand reached up, one finger resting ever so delicately against his mouth, sliding down, slowly, until she could pull on his bottom lip, let her nail catch against the fullness there.  ”Whatever were you waiting for?”

His eyes rolled back, his head and shoulders pressed to the wood behind him as the fingers between his legs dug in, just a little, a brief hard squeeze, and he couldn’t remember now why he’d bothered with dinner at all, why he hadn’t just pulled her to him and bent her over the banquet table so he could feel the sweet grip of her around his cock.

He forced himself to breathe, a deep gasp of air, hard enough to make his stomach clench, his hips jerk one more time.  She purred in response, her body curving closer, the roll of her hips starting at her shoulders and working all the way down to her toes, and he almost forgot _again,_ how to think, how to move, and he pressed a hand to her back, fingers spread wide as he took a deep breath.

She went instantly impossibly still, poised and perfect, eyes wide and nostrils flaring as she looked up at him, and he could feel the strength of her arm pinned between them, the wild heat beneath her skin, could almost see the speed of her pulse along the side of her throat.

"You," he felt that word in his throat, in his heart, in the taut line of her body and the almost feral flash of her smile before he kissed her, hard, leaning down to take her mouth with his, fingers pressing against her spine, pushing her up against his chest, a growl in his throat, needing to feel the shift of her tongue and the lift of her chin to meet him.

Her fingers gripped harder and he couldn’t stop the groan, losing the kiss with a flush of heat, a desperate gasp for air. His hips pushed forward against her palm, his weight shifting enough to make her stumble back half a step, to let her hand drop free of him and throw her head back with a soft laugh.

She met his eyes, smile fading as her lips parted, just enough to let the tip of her tongue flash into sight between her teeth, and they came back together, her hands on his belt and his pulling up her skirts until he could feel the smooth hot skin of her legs, feel her breath so close to his, and the shiver when he groaned, eyes closed, trying but mostly failing not to thrust against her fingers when she wrapped them around his cock.

And then she let go, stepped back, and he almost stumbled, heavy and awkward in comparison to her light footed grace.  She side-stepped around him neatly, and he followed the swirl of her skirts until they’d switched places, her silk whispering against the wood of the door behind her.  He caught a glimpse of her toes curling in the plush rug beneath them an instant before she moved forward again, hands pushing down on his shoulders, that feral glint of teeth and eyes returning as he let himself fall to the floor.

Green eyes widened even further than usual, huge and dark and shining as she looked down at him, watched him lay back, flat on the floor.  She licked her lips and stepped forward, precise and delicate, feet resting on either side of his knees.

He could feel the heat of her gaze, his hips lifting as if he could get closer to her, could feel the breath that parted her lips on a sigh if he just _reached._   

He had to wrap a hand around the base of his cock when she stepped forward again, feet just past his hips, a hint of silk skirt brushing soft against hard skin, catching on his knuckles; had to hold himself down, resist the urge to spill just at the blink of her eyes and the lift of her chin and the way her nostrils flared at the sight of him at her feet, waiting for her.

_No more waiting._

She dropped, skirts spreading wide, pausing,  _teasing,_  barely still above him, and he shifted his hand up out of the way, his fingertips just brushing against the edges of her hips before moving down her thighs, her skin warm beneath his palms, silk cool against his knuckles, and he couldn’t tell which was softer, even as his thumb stroked, and dug in deeper, feeling the muscles go taut in her legs as she adjusted her weight _just so,_  the heat of her brushing against the very crown of his cock.  

She smiled, wide and pleased, and hummed, and lowered herself slowly down, taking him in.  His eyes closed as her body surrounded him, his fingers clenched and his hips lifted, a whine of breath, of joy, every other thought lost to wet heat clinging, sliding, tightening, until she settled against his hips and he bucked up harder, deeper, unable even to moan as she clenched, and shifted, the hot  and clenched again.

It was all too good, heat and silk and the taut curve of her body as she leaned back, the shift of her around his cock even better than the anticipation had been, all that long evening; he wasn’t going to last.

But neither, clearly, was she, a familiar catch in her breath, the tight grip of her hands around his arms, the press of her hips down against him without rhythm or pattern, faster and harder, until her fingers tightened enough he could feel the slim line of her nails through his sleeves, and her body stilled, tight and hot and frozen for a heartbeat, two, a perfect trembling moment of pleasure before she loosened, and he could feel the shiver down her back as he lifted himself up inside her again,  _again,_ one last time, and everything narrowed to one last drawn out spill of heat.   


He could feel each breath lifting his chest, the weight of her thighs warm and snug against his hips, but he couldn’t seem to convince himself to do anything requiring more exertion than blinking.

Merrill leaned forward, hands spread across his chest until her weight shifted and her head settled beneath his shoulder, and it was quite the easiest thing in the world to lift his arms and wrap them around her.

He felt the lightest of touches, a curving finger tracing a line of embroidery down his chest, tickling just enough to cause a shiver along his skin.

"However do they make this color, do you know?"  Her voice was soft, and light, almost as light as her touch.  "It’s such a perfect match, it catches the light and shines and is almost as pretty as your eyes.  How long did it take them to figure that out, just to make your clothes?"

"My Grandmother had the same color eyes," Sebastian answered, just as soft, the words warm and slow.  "Grandfather had it made for their wedding."

"What, this doublet?"  Her lilt thickened,  laughter hiding behind the words.  ” She’d look very silly in a man’s shirt at her wedding, don’t you think?” 

"Oh, it was all the style back then, didn’t you know?  Women in doublets and hose, men in skirts and heels."

"Mmmm," she hummed a pleased sort of sound, lifting her head and pulling herself further up his chest until she was close enough to kiss him.  But she didn’t, not quite, lips almost brushing along his jaw, breath blowing against his skin.  "You’d look so very pretty in a skirt."

"You already called me pretty."  He was smiling, almost laughing, couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it.  "Why would I need to bother with the skirt?"

She hummed again, and this time her mouth did reach his, and she was so warm in his arms, soft lips pressed to his, delicate fingers trailing along his neck and jaw until she lifted her head again.  ”You’re right, you’d be much prettierout of the skirt.”

A proper laugh finally escaped at that, and he lifted his chin enough he could kiss the tip of her nose.  ”You would know, milady.  You are quite the prettiest woman of my acquaintance.”

"And I’ve even seen you naked, yes, which is more important in this particular comparison."  She giggled as he rolled his eyes, and he kissed her nose again, catching her just as she started to squirm back against his arms, and slid far enough off of him to stand up.

She shook out her skirts, and he did up his trousers, and she swirled away with one last kiss blown over her shoulder before she opened the door.

He went through an entire verse of  _Benedictions_  in his head before he followed.

_I can be discreet._

_Sometimes._


	8. Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [yarnandteaisallineed](http://yarnandteaisallineed.tumblr.com/) said: 
> 
> Oooh, you know if you're asking for prompts and mention Sebrill, I'm gonna prompt you for Sebrill. Perhaps Sebastian falls for the assumption of innocence from Merrill so tries to romance her with something sweet like taking her out to pick flowers and when she realizes what he's up to, she ends up talking him into having sex in the woods instead? Because flowers are nice and all, but sex with Sebastian is better. ^_^

Merrill had missed so many of Isabela’s innuendos over the years, Sebastian wouldn’t want to ask and have her not understand.

Or think that he was simply trying to proposition her.

Not that he wasn’t rather desperately wondering about sex, about her, naked, her skin against his, pale and warm, and if there were tattoos beyond the ones on her face, and if the curve of her hips was as slight and smooth as it seemed beneath mail and a cinched belt, and if her ears were as sensitive as the elves he’d _known_ when he was young …

But it wasn’t _just_ sex.  Somehow, over the years, she’d become his friend, and he’d been her confidant when Isabela was gone and Varric was busy and no one else seemed to want to listen to her, and she was trying so hard to help the other elves in the alienage even without her ‘skills’, the old scars along her hands and arms healing now that she was restricting herself to regular magic.

And how he’d changed, the past four years, that a ‘regular’ apostate was no longer something to fear, not in and of itself.

Herself.

That was what made all the difference, really.

He’d fallen in love, somehow, with the lilt of her voice and the flash of her smile, the way she could always find something beautiful in the morning light, no matter how thick the smog from the Foundries, how heavy the air from the docks.

With the way she could ask any question, no matter the subject, without any apparent hint of embarrassment, only honest curiosity.

With the way she was always so sure of herself, of who she was and what she needed to do, no matter the vitriol aimed her way.

Stubborn as a mule, in fact, if infinitely prettier.

Which got him back to wondering if she’d let him kiss the tips of her ears, or her nose, or if she’d ever wish to kiss him back, a smile curving her lips, every bit of her prettier than anyone else he’d ever known.

But he didn’t have any idea how one was supposed to court a dalish, how free they were with their romances, if she’d have the slightest interest in a  _human,_ most especially one who had spent so much of his life supporting the Chantry, which even in his most charitable moments he couldn’t claim had done well by the elves under its care.

He knew she missed Ferelden.  Perhaps she’d enjoy a trip to the Planasene?  It was the closest the Marches could come to the forests of the south.

And maybe, once they were alone, he would finally figure out how to tell her how he felt.

*** *** ***

Sebastian had never been the best at knowing what to say, nor had he always been able to tell when those around him were less than appreciative of his sentiments. Not that Merrill was much better, she knew, but he seemed flustered enough now that even she could notice, a tightening across his lips and a flush across his cheeks.

Pol had always blushed terribly, all the way across his chest and up his neck, his ears an even brighter red than his cheeks. She couldn’t help but wonder if Sebastian’s flush went further down than his face, if it was warm enough she’d be able to feel it beneath her hands. She didn’t think he’d appreciate that sort of question, however, and she occasionally knew when it was best to keep her mouth shut.

She’d rather shut her mouth around his cock.

 _Creators_ , she needed to stop thinking things like that, or she’d say one of them out loud eventually, and then the formal Brother would come back, rather than simply Sebastian, and this entire trip would be ruined.

It was such a nice trip.  A lovely place, deep and green and cool, a friend to share it with, someone who was interested in the stories she told, dalish lore and woodcraft, who could tell tales of his own, escaping out to the hills behind Starkhaven, journeys to the outlying crofts and farms on Chantry business once he was in Kirkwall.

It wasn’t his fault she wanted to climb him like a tree and find out how broad his hips and shoulders really were, once his clothes were gone.

It was definitely his fault for finding somewhere so very blasted  _romantic_ however.  A waterfall.  Green moss and old trees and sunshine and  _orchids._

He couldn’t have done better if he’d planned it out.

But he had his vows, and was ever so much a  _shem_ , and he was obviously as startled by the view as she was, shoulders tense and cheeks flushed and eyes … still and serious, and he was looking at her, not the view, and she could feel the weight of his attention, hot against her skin, and she could see the flare of his nostrils as he breathed, heavier than usual, and a twitch of fingers down by his sides and she tried, really she did, but she couldn’t resist the glance down his stomach, along his hips, imagining heavy grey leathers sliding down his thighs, revealing his cock, and she’d never fucked a human man before, she wondered if he’d feel the same, inside her, hot and hard, and her thighs pushed together and she lifted her gaze to his face, watched his lips part as her breath lifted her chest, and her cheeks blazed.

She was the one blushing now.

"Merrill," he whispered her name, and she’d never heard his voice like that, soft and warm and full, but she couldn’t tell what it was full  _of,_ what he was trying to say without saying, and she moved, closer, just a step, and he dropped to one knee, looking up at her with something almost like hope in his eyes, as if his gesture meant something more than just avoiding towering over her, the giant man, quite one of the tallest people she’d ever met short of a qunari, ( _short,_ she almost giggled), and she could see it in his face when she felt herself scowl instead, trying to understand.  She could see the shift of his jaw and the tightness in his face and his eyes  _dimmed,_  she hadn’t thought that was a thing eyes could really do, a phrase in one of Isabela’s ridiculous stories, and she stepped forward again and dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to hold his cheeks, and before he could say something, or pull away, before she had to watch that fragile light in his eyes die out completely, afraid the sight would kill her, she kissed him. _  
_

He was shocked still, and she almost stopped as soon as she started, but he was so warm, his lips so soft, and she wanted, so very badly, and she wasn’t good at wanting things, she knew, she always made a mess, but he was _Sebastian,_ surely it would be all right, surely?

But no, he was too stiff, and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed, so as not to see, perhaps not even to feel the drop of her heart down her chest, plummeting further than the falls beside them, down into deep green shadows, too far, lost and alone, and started to pull away.  

She felt him gasp, at last, when she moved, and his whole body eased against her, and his mouth softened, and his lips parted, and his arms wrapped around her to pull her back to him, to keep her close.

Her heart lifted too far, caught in her throat, her head spinning, her chest light and empty, but it didn’t matter, he was warm, so warm, arms tight and chest hard against hers, the line of his cheeks surprisingly soft beneath her fingers, and his mouth,  _Creators,_ the firm press of his lips and the hum of surprise in his throat so thick she could taste it, sweet and rich.

“ _Ma vhenan,_ _”_   her head fell back and her hands dropped to his shoulders as she breathed out towards the green above them, water misting across her face and eyes, the world a blur as his tongue and lips scalded the line of her jaw.

His breath was almost as hot against her ear, his voice low and slow.  ”What does that mean?”

"My heart."

She felt him still, and her fingers curled into the cloth stretched across his shoulders, and her breath shuddered out of her.   _Too much, too soon, I said the wrong thing didn’t I, I always …_

His palm slid against her cheek, smooth and warm and broad enough to cover half her face if he’d tried, and she made herself take another breath, made herself lower her chin to look at him again.

"Oh," her breath escaped, and she lifted one hand to rest her fingertips against his lips, tried to breathe around the shine in his blue eyes.  "No one’s ever looked at me like that, like Varric when he’s taking care of Bianca."

"More fools them," Sebastian answered, his voice a rasp, a brush of air against her fingers, a rumble she could feel low in her stomach, her lips parting as if she could swallow the heat of them, the depth of them, feel them inside her.  “ _Mo mhuirnín bán,_ you are much more beautiful than a crossbow.”

She laughed, soft and broken, her other hand lifting to trace the line of his jaw, her head tilting to push against his hand; she couldn’t stop touching him, warm skin and such a smile, hot delight and hope and things she couldn’t name shivering in the air between them.  ”Even Bianca?”

"Even Bianca." He kissed her fingertips, and his smile widened as she shivered.  He lifted his free hand, pressed it to her chest, her heart thumping up against her ribs as if to touch him back, hard enough she was sure he felt it through her quilted jacket.  "My heart."

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” she whispered again, letting her fingers trail against his skin, off his face and down his throat, the beat of his heart a whisper against her skin as she went. She giggled, fingers curling beneath the collar of his shirt as he repeated it, even almost getting the pronunciation right.

He leaned in enough to brush his nose against her cheek, her mouth, and he took such care with that final shift, took such time moving his lips to hers, slow and slower still, a light caress against the corner of her mouth, a gentle suck of her bottom lip into his mouth, a brush against her top lip encouraging her to open her mouth to his, a tease of shared heat and shivering breaths taking a glorious age to become a kiss.

It didn’t take very long at all, however, for her hands to start to wander, the width of his shoulders, down his chest and stomach, fingers curling each time the tip of his tongue teased past her lips, until he broke away with a gasp, his forehead falling to her shoulder, his hips jerking and his body shuddering as she got a hand between his legs.  She pressed even closer, trying to feel the heat and length of him through his trousers, sliding her hand to feel the weight of him against her palm.

"Maker’s Breath," he groaned, his fingers gripping tight around her shoulders, and she couldn’t tell if the catch in his voice was pain or pleasure, and she let go of him.

"Oh, was that, shouldn’t I?" She didn’t know what to do with her hands now, their bodies were pressed much too close to let them shift with her words between them as they usually did when she spoke, and he’d felt so good, she wanted more, not less, but not if he didn’t, but he’d said  _his heart,_ just like she had, and while her heart was quite pleased with his words and his smile the rest of her body really wanted to know about the rest of  _his_ body and just what she was getting herself into, or rather what was hopefully going to be getting into her, and there was just no way to say  _that_ out loud unless you were Isabela which she most certainly wasn’t and would he rather be with someone like Isabela who knew how to say things like that rather than her and what was she supposed to be doing now … _  
_

Her body jerked and her arms wrapped around him again at the feel of his teeth around the tip of her ear, a shock of almost pain and definite pleasure and sharp edged heat and she stopped breathing entirely, and stopped worrying at all because _yes._

"Merrill, breathe."

She did.

She turned her head with a sigh, until she was managing to look at him again, his skin flushed and his hair still perfectly smooth, because she’d been much too distracted by shoulders and cock to bother playing with it yet, but that was definitely next on the list, yes, he had lovely thick hair and she bet it was going to feel wonderful between her fingers.

Assuming he meant the same sort of thing by all this kissing that she did, anyways.

"Where did you go?"  Sebastian’s voice was soft, possibly softer than his breathing, each lift of his chest slow and heavy.

"I want, that is to say I’ve never, I mean — "

"Never?" Sebastian had an odd look on his face, shoulders stiff as if it was his turn not to know what to do with his hands, and she blinked at him a time or three before she realized what he thought she’d just said.

"Oh, no, not, I’ve had  _sex,_ I’ve definitely had sex, though not as often as I probably just made it sound, certainly not as often as Isabela, though she didn’t actually have it as often as she let people think, but I liked to listen to her stories, and get ideas for things I might like to do if someone ever wanted to do them with me, because she really did have the best stories, but I’ve only ever with  _elves,_ and I was curious if it was all, I mean, if you were the same, well not exactly, obviously they’re never exactly the same, but I really wanted to know what  _yours,”_ Merrill took a deep breath, feeling her cheeks flush as his eyes widened.  ”I just, I went too fast?”

He swallowed, she could see it, a shift down his throat that made something in her own throat ache in sympathy, and shook his head, ever so slightly.  ”I adore you.  Including the way your thoughts speed along at twice the speed of anyone else’s and your words come tumbling after, and I want to be _with_ you, in whatever way you desire.” His voice dropped at the end, and breathing was completely unnecessary ever again, heat in her stomach and her fingers aching to touch him again, to touch him properly, to feel his skin rather than the stretch of cloth hiding his shoulders.  He smiled, and she inhaled, hard and deep, trying to find her balance in reaction to that impossibly sweet heat in his eyes.  ”But no one’s touched me like that in fifteen years; I am singularly lacking in self-control when you do.”

She let her hands slide down his chest again, slower this time, pausing when she reached his stomach, and his eyes slid closed with a sigh, and she made herself ask, needing the words as well as the weight of his body leaning into her touch, the feel of muscles gone taut beneath her fingers.  ”So you don’t want me to stop?”

"Never." He breathed the word out slowly, and his oh his  _voice_ _,_  he clearly meant never as in forever, and she had a sudden thought of doing this again,  _and again,_  and a lifetime of agains, rather than just looking to the next morning as she’d been doing for much too long, ever since Marethari, no ever since Tamlen and Lenya, all those years ago.  

She moved her hand behind his neck, up into his hair, as thick and soft as she’d imagined, and pulled him in to kiss again, harder, deeper, swallowing his groan as her other hand found his cock again, rubbing, measuring it against the spread of her fingers, imagining it inside her, wanting him inside her.

"Merrill," his voice was tight, his hips rolling, his breath shaking against her lips, her cheek.  "Sometime you should tell me, all those things," she nodded against him as he paused to swallow, shivering at the press of her hand, "but please, now,  _please._ ”

She managed a sound that was clearly enough encouraging even if it didn’t much resemble words, and they shifted to a sudden desperate scrabble at untying and unbuckling and she made a crooning sort of sound she’d never even imagined before when she ran her hands down his naked back, and his whole body shook an instant before he kissed her breasts, and maybe next time she’d be interested in that hair, curlier and even thicker than what was on his head, but this time she went straight for his cock, fingers wrapping around him, listening to the sound he made, desperate and aching, kneeling beside her as she sat down before him, grass prickling against bare skin.

She stroked, and palmed the tip, and stroked again, listening to each rough breath, following each thrust of his hips, unable to decide if she more wanted to watch his face or his cock.

"I can’t," his voice had gone thick, his fingers clenching into fists, a crease between his brows.

"You can," she answered, "for me, now."

And he did, one last jerk of his hips and a long groan and the heavy hot slick of his release spread across her arm and chest, and she closed her eyes and her own hips tried to lift whether she wished them to or not, at the heat on her skin and the loss of his control and the throb between her legs and the ache in her breasts and she could feel one heavy drop lingering at her nipple as she opened her eyes to meet his gaze.  

He licked his lips and she had to suppress a shiver, afraid it would shift the weight of that drop and let it fall before its time.  

"Is this one of those things?"  Sebastian voice was rough, but his hand was gentle, one finger tracing the line of her jaw and moving down the curve of her neck.  She managed a nod, a flare of nostrils and curve of her spine as she lifted up towards his touch, and he smiled as he shifted his weight and slid a hand behind her head and eased her back to rest on the ground.

She lifted her chin, feeling her hair catch on a stone beneath her, feeling her skin flush as she stretched under the weight of his regard, managed one quick shallow breath before he bent over and licked, a quick flick against her nipple.  She jerked, her body tense, as taut as one of his bowstrings as she watched him swallow that one stubborn drop, as she watched him smile, eyes gone dark, the blue so bright around the black, as she watched him lift her hand, and bow his head, and lick, firmly this time, tongue spread flat against her skin, dragging slow and hot up the inside of her arm.  She whined, breath and skin and muscles too tight to allow for more, heat coiling even low beneath her stomach, endless anticipation.  

She gasped when he shifted his head, air shockingly cold against hot damp skin, then closed her eyes as he pressed his tongue to her arm again, sliding up into the dip at the inside of her elbow, gathering up his own spilled seed along the way.

When he was done he moved to her chest, slow and steady, a lick, a kiss, hands firm against her sides, her hips, keeping her still as she moved beneath him, a twist of spine, a jerk of stomach, a lift of her chest as she reminded herself, over and over again, how to breathe past the ache in her lungs, her heart. 

She wasn’t even completely sure why she wanted this in particular so badly, why the idea of him tasting himself on her skin made her thoughts disappear, sparks lost in the heat flushing her body, but she felt it when he _swallowed_ , an extra throb in her sex, a clench low between her thighs, behind her stomach, building and tightening and twisting, until she was silently begging with each breath,  _more, more, more._

As if in answer, his lips closed over her nipple and sucked, and she cried out as her body arched, back curving up off the ground, pushing up into his mouth, she could feel the pressure from his mouth like a line down her spine, her stomach, pulling her higher, her tighter, eyes open but the world gone, a blur of light and green and shadow narrowing to the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his heat above her.  She jerked back down with a gasp, at last, at the feel of his hand moving down her side, fingers finding the edge of her hip, down, _down,_ until she grabbed it, breathless, wordless, holding it still.  He lifted his head, her breast sliding free, and she whined a breath, blinked, looked at him,  _waiting,_  eyes fixed on her face, and it was hard to remember words, desires, anything beyond the line of his cheek and the contrast of light and dark in his eyes.

"Not your hand." She could feel the bones in his hand beneath hers as his fingers shifted against her hip, his weight so carefully balanced on his other arm, nothing touching her, and she ached for it, for him, the weight of his chest pressing down on her, his arms around her, his hips pressed to her body.  She knew she wouldn’t get it though, not until he was sure she wanted it, wanted him, wasn’t trying to make him stop.  "When you’re finally, this first time," she turned her head, tried to lean closer, eyes wide, watching his face, his shoulders, his body.  "I want your cock to be the first part of you I feel inside me."

His face changed, hot and taut and almost trembling, eyes dark for an instant before he blinked, a slow sweep of long dark lashes,  _too beautiful to bear,_ heavy on her heart, until he rolled on top of her, some of his weight braced on his arms, surrounding her, but the rest settling against her skin, hot and hard and a completely different sort of heavy, wonderfully heavy, pressing against her breasts, her stomach, and he swallowed her moan with a kiss, deep and open, ‘til they were gasping together, heartbeats and lips and tongues, her arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling herself up against his heat, his skin, until not even a breath could have fit between them. _  
_

But he was too blasted _tall,_ no matter how her hips curved and she lifted up beneath him, he wasn’t quite  _there,_ a tease, just out of reach, and even as she shuddered beneath his lips, his fingers, she wanted more.

Needed more.

Needed him.

"I can’t," she murmured, hands sliding down his back, trying to pull him up, push herself down, something,  _anything,_ caught too tightly between him and the ground beneath her, uneven sunlight caught in the leaves above them, slipping through the waterfall mist around them, until the very air seemed to glow, to shine, “please.”

"You can," his voice was so soft, fragile against her neck, and his weight lifted,  _curved,_ and there he was, at last, and she reached down to touch him, listening to the rasp and shudder of his breath, shivering against her skin as she guided him even closer.

His voice stuttered into a groan, her chin lifted to free a sigh, as his hips moved forward, as he eased inside her, her thighs spreading as she stretched, and moaned, and more, slowly,  _slowly,_  thick and hot and full, fingers digging into shoulders, dirt, skin and  _yes_ and more,  _and more,_ and there, “Sebastian.” _  
_

His hips rolled against her, at the sound of his name, or the feel of her breath, or the grip of her body around him, she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell, she couldn’t think, just feel, the way it made him push a little deeper, rub inside her, and she clung to him, fingers and legs and cunt, biting her lip, trying to breathe, trying to stop, to freeze, to hold the sweet ache as long as possible, to stay balanced on one slim edge of pleasure.

But her hips lifted anyways, and his shifted, and it was better, _impossible,_ again, her face pressed to his chest, breathing in heat and sweat and the musk of his skin, her arms wrapped around his ribs, legs gripping his hips, holding him tight, and tighter still, she couldn’t let him pull away, couldn’t bear to lose this, lose him, the curve of their hips rubbing together; she was full of him, everywhere, between her arms and between her legs, she could feel the beat of his heart against her forehead, the tremble in his arms as she clenched around him, the heat of him, deep inside her.

It surprised her, a stretch, an ache, a shiver through her hips the only warning before her body came apart, a soft strangled cry as she tried to hold him even tighter, as she tried to hold herself, and failed, and won, her body light and empty, but still full of him, grounded by him, the warm purr of his voice savoring her name, his fingers in her hair, against her ears, his lips kissing her neck, slow and sweet, inviting her back with him, with the roll of his hips and the slide of his skin.  She sighed with each shift inside her, warm and easy, a shiver of pleasure up her spine, sweet and light, until the smooth steady rhythm of his body stuttered, and she felt the tension in his back beneath her fingers, his chest against her breasts, the catch in his breath against her skin as he let go. 

They stayed together, breath easing, bodies soft and loose, gentle touches, a nuzzle against skin, a soft giggle, until the misty air was too cool to bear, and she shivered, toes curling against his leg, and he reached around her, fingers scratching and scrambling ‘til he found her shirt, and pulled it over her, hands rubbing down her arms and back to warm her skin.

"Well, that was unexpected." She scrambled into his lap, delighted at the hint of pink across his face, and she let the very tips of her fingers rest along the line of his cheekbone; but all of him was nicely warm against her skin, and she couldn’t tell if his face was even warmer or not.  "Are you going to blush a lot? Because I really wasn’t expecting that and it is quite distracting. And warm?"

He coughed, and flushed deeper, and yes, there was a hint of heat down his throat before he managed to turn it into a laugh, and reached up to touch her hand, shifting it over just enough to kiss the palm, and  _oh,_ just that, even after what they’d just done, perhaps especially after, made her heart twist, sweet and sharp both at once.

Her wrist turned, fingers against the line of his jaw, watching him watch her, the slightest shift across his face, the widening of his nostrils with his breath.

She had to ask.  ”Whatever are we doing?” 

He smiled, small, but it was there, a secret twist, a light caught in his eyes.  ”I have not the slightest idea, I was rather hoping you might.”

"Hmmm," she felt her own smile, tucked tight on one side of her mouth as she tilted her head and considered.  And then she kissed him again, nipped gently at his bottom lip before she pulled back.  "There’s a lovely sunlit stream right there. Bath?"

She felt the glide of his hands, palm warm and just the slightest bit rough against her hips.  ”And after that?”

"Bed?"

"And after that?"  He’d ducked in close, lips brushing against her collarbone.

"More bed?"

He laughed, a low rumble against her neck, and she shivered, hands gripping suddenly at his shoulders to hold herself in place.  ”And when we eventually have to get out of bed?”

"Whyever should we do that?"  She’d tried to sound sultry, like the best of Isabela’s stories, but instead her voice went up, soft and breathy, at the feel of his mouth kissing the edge of her ear.  "I was quite sure you were not at all inclined towards bedding me, what with the Chantry and Starkhaven and _things,_ and I really have to take advantage of you now you’ve changed your mind.”  She blinked, managed to think about what she was saying as his lips moved away from her skin.  ”Not that I would want to  _take advantage,_  why do words never mean what I think they’re going to mean before I say them?”

"That would be ever so boring."  Sebastian really did have the nicest voice, even when it was swallowing laughter behind the words.  "Besides," and there, the laughter was gone, something else thickening the words, making her look at him directly again, watch the way his eyes focused on her.  "If either of us ever knew the right thing to say, you probably never would have kissed me, and then where would we be?"

She blinked, ignored the sudden damp caught in her lashes, swallowed heat down her throat, let her fingers rest against his cheek again, for just a moment, admiring the lines of his face, and the fact that he was here for her to touch, _so much touching to catch up on,_ and attempted a light shrug, a light voice, steady as her breath wasn’t.

"Dressed?"

He kissed her fingertips,  _so soft,_ and there was a smile there, but something else too, his shoulders set and his fingers slow as he reached up to touch her face, a brush along the lines of her  _vallaslin_ before they stilled against her jaw.  

"Merrill, if we had  _not,_ not that I am not glad, but it is not the physical I would have regretted, if we hadn’t - “ _  
_

"Shh," she pressed her finger to his lips, because what was there to say that could possibly explain that she knew precisely what he meant, that she wanted to be able to feel his smile even when she couldn’t see him, that she wanted to taste the pulse at his throat and learn if he snored and what he would look like when the creases by his eyes deepened as he aged, to watch the way humans’ lives left marks on their skin as the years passed, how she suddenly hoped she’d live long enough to see him change, but not long enough to see him die?

And his eyes were just so _blue,_ she could drown in them, and never need to breathe again.  But still she did, whether she wished to or not, and with that breath, she knew.

"I love you too."


	9. control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [impalawanderlust](http://impalawanderlust.tumblr.com/) said: Sebastian/Merrill with Merrill being the one who takes charge of the situation/is the more dominant of the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's pegging in this one, if that's, you know, not your thing.
> 
> /sorry, I always forget to put warnings on things. I'm terrible at the actual posting part of fic writing.

She loved his eyes.  Not just the color, though it was remarkable, but the way she could feel when they were focused on her, the way they always found her when she entered a room, no matter what he’d been doing before hand.

She loved the way they responded to her every move, the way they slowly blinked close when she let her fingers _just_ brush against his jaw.  

They way they’d open again, just a little, a hint of blue, dark and shadowed by his lashes, just enough to see the next shift of her hand, or her shoulders, or the lift of her chin, so he’d know what she wanted him to do next.

Perhaps that was the best part, after all, to watch him bend so gracefully, down to his knees or flat on his back; so tall, so broad, so strong, and none of it mattered.  Twice her size, and completely at her mercy.

Not that she felt inclined towards mercy, very often.  

Not that he ever complained.

She liked him on his back, an expanse of dusky skin and auburn hair and just a few irresistible freckles that she always kissed on her way down his body.

She’d wait though, before she truly got started, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the tension in his hips, the muscles shifting in his arms as he settled his hands, the occasional twitch as he repressed an urge to lift them, to touch, if that time she’d declared it against the rules _, if you touch yourself, or me, we’ll stop the game,_ his cock at half mast from the kisses exchanged as they’d removed their clothes, slowly hardening further just from the weight of her gaze, the heat of anticipation inside him.

Until, at last, she’d nod, and he’d spread his legs, lifting them just enough to present himself to her.  She’d bite her lip and she’d roll her hips, the press of her own thighs clenched tight barely enough to even tease, the heat beneath her skin scalding, distracting; she was always turned on by his body on display for her.

She liked to warm the salve they used, heat it with the memory of flame until it was _almost_ too hot, until the first touch of it against his skin made him hiss, tight and sharp, as if in pain, but she knew better.  She loved to watch the muscles in his stomach tighten, his chin lift and his eyes close, listen to the shudder as he let his breath back out again.

She could see that shudder deepen, crossing shoulders and chest, accompanied by a rough moan as she eased a finger inside, then twisted, his breath gone tight and fast, hands fisted in the sheets, hips lifting to push against her hand, muscles clenching as if to keep her inside him, and she’d permit him that, but only that, indulging her own desires as she slowly, _slowly,_ added a second finger, a third, a fourth, her breath shallow with need at the sound he’d make, broken and rough, as he stretched around her knuckles, feeling her own voice catch in a groan at how good he felt, tight and hot, his body trying to close around her wrist, the deep and desperate gasps of his breath as she curled her entire hand inside him.

She’d lean her body in closer, listening to the whimper of his breath at the change in angle, the shift of his body against the sheet beneath him as he tried desperately not to buck, not to squirm, until she wrapped her other hand around his cock and stroked, and tensed her fist, and he’d lose it then, his whole body lifting, a hoarse cry from his throat as he came, hot seed and a shuddering body, a beautiful white mess spread across his skin.

Sometimes she’d lick him clean, lips and tongue and salt and heat. Sometimes, once his eyes slowly blinked open, she’d touch herself, quick and shivering, let him watch how close she’d come, just by pleasuring him, how little it took to send her the rest of the way. Sometimes she’d crawl up the length of him, kiss him, straddle him, let him taste how wet she was, let his tongue and lips be the final push to make her come.

She liked to take care of him, afterwards.  Make sure he was clean, and warm, make him tea, or even just fresh water, and watch him sleep.

***

Occasionally he’d catch her eyes, and she’d let her gaze drop, let her shoulders shrug, let her hands fall loose and empty at her side, and he’d know she wanted him to play.

He liked to draw it out, catching her at an odd quiet moment during the day, tucking them both into some out of the way corner, wrapping his arms around her until she was pressed against him, her back against his chest, his grip tight as his arm circled her chest, or loose as his fingers rested against her neck, until her head fell back against him, and he slid his other hand down the front of her trousers, or up under her skirts, and he’d press, and slide, and circle just so, his mouth on her ear and his voice urging her on, telling her to come for him.  

She always did, her lips pressed tight to muffle the catch of her breath, the urge to cry out his name, and he’d slide his hand free of her body, and she’d shudder as she listened to him suck his fingers clean, as she felt the hard line of his cock trapped between them, and he’d kiss the curve of her neck, warm and swift, and slip away, leaving her to catch her breath before she stepped out into the world again.

Sometimes he’d keep it up for days, no pattern, no rhythm, again and again, until the muscles beneath her stomach ached, a twinge every time she sat, or stood, a haze of arousal and desire and anticipation underlying every thought, every action, her smalls damp just at the sound of his voice in passing.

Until, at last, she’d find herself pressed against him, his fingers curving inside her and his tongue in her ear, and her breath would catch and she’d be  _almost_ there, rubbing back against him, feeling the line of his cock against her back, eyes closing at the heat of his chest behind her head, and he would  _stop,_ fingers sliding free, stepping back away from her, and she’d hear herself whimper, half regret, half anticipation, because  _now,_ now at last, the audible slide of a belt or ties, fabric slipping against her skin as he shoved it out of the way, and then he’d be shoving _her_ , bent over a desk or flat to the floor, fingers firm as he spread her legs just so, and oh, she’d feel her heart beat, heavy, fast, her body pushing back against his touch.  

Sometimes she’d be silent, voice caught in her throat, and sometimes she’d beg,  _yes, now, hard,_  very few people had ever fucked her as hard as she asked, worried about the small fragile young elf they thought her to be, but he always listened, always obeyed, his first hard thrust slamming his body against her, inside her, a shock of pain, an arch of spine, her fingers scrabbling and scratching against wood or stone, desperately, hopelessly, reaching for a solid grip, a brace, failing, falling, full and aching and perfect, no chance for quiet this time, a wordless cry pouring out of her until she had to gasp for breath, until he pulled back, the rub of heat inside her more than she could bear,  _Creators, Sebastian, please._

He did it again, again, a grunt of breath, a low growl, the slap of skin and the pulse of her heart, her body, coming apart only to reform around him, again,  _again,_ and sometimes she thought, if not for the grip of his hands, fingers against her skin, her hips, she’d be dying there beneath him, lost to everything but the feel of him inside her, the taste of him in the back of her throat, the sound of him everywhere, until nothing else mattered, not even the air to fill her gasping mouth, and she loved it all, until one last roll of his hips forced a final groan from her, and she would sigh with his few last shuddering thrusts as he fell into the warmth of the Void with her.

***

She quite liked him on his hands and knees before her, groaning, begging as she took him from behind, filled him with wood or ceramic or even one particular piece made from stone, smooth and striated in green and brown and black, all of them smooth, but variously thick, or long, depending on her mood.

She liked to tease him first, of course, a bit of tongue, or lips, or fingers, nails trailing down his back as she thought of all the things they’d done before, all the things they could do this time, and she’d twist a finger or two inside his arse, just a bit, just enough to make him whisper her name, a slow drawl through the r’s in the middle.

Her hips would jerk at the sound, and the rub of leather was better than fantasy, better than memory, and she would slide her hand free, smiling at the keen in his breath, the shiver from cool air replacing her heat, the shift of his hips as he tried to follow her hand’s retreat.

She’d click her tongue, and he’d straighten his spine, though she would see the lift of his shoulders with the depth of the breath he took to accomplish it.

She could torment them both for ‘marks that way, until they were trapped, balanced delicately on the sharp edge of pleasure but not ever quite falling.  The smooth texture of her harness was never enough for her, and his breath would grow ragged and his cock harder and harder as she refrained from giving him his release, no touch against him to push him over that edge.

Sometimes she’d step back, make him listen as she loosened buckles and straps and touched herself, his arms straining against the cuffs around his wrists, his forehead dropping to the mat beneath him, his back curved and taut with prolonged and precious agony, as she cried out her own relief before starting again.

When each breath was almost a sob, skin aflame and eyes wide and dark, she’d finally choose his pleasure, leaning close to stretch an arm around his hips, a touch of her hands all he’d need before his hips would buck back and he’d cry out, hoarse and rough, or she’d undo the buckle between his cuffs and watch him touch himself, feeling the shift as he clenched around the toy, feeling the shudder beneath his skin, the tremble in his thighs.

When he was done, spent and weak, she’d pull herself free, discard the harness to the side, and pull herself close, a breath against his skin, her arms around his shoulders as he turned and gathered her close, and she’d kiss him, at last, and his hand would slide between her legs, each stroke or circling fingertip slow and languid, ‘til at last her pleasure crested, warm and soothing and endless, and she sighed into his mouth.

_Sweet dreams, ma vhenan._


	10. introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was the beginning of an attempt to fill a smut prompt ... which never actually quite went anywhere, but it was a nice little glimpse inside Merrill's head, before she and Sebastian quite moved anywhere past careful friends.

Only someone who had never had to worry about how to stretch their rations to last another moon would think a vow of poverty a mark of pride.

She’d asked him about his vows more than once, what and how and why he felt he still needed to keep to them, now, living an odd half life that almost reminded her of her own.  Not quite Prince, (no longer First), no longer a Brother, (not accepted in the City), never quite the same as the rest of Hawke’s refugees, either of them. 

She almost always got the same response, the slow soft half smile and a shake of his head.  “You would not have liked the youth I was yesterday, Merrill.  And I would not be who I am today without them.  I would not be someone I could respect if I abandoned them now, just because I don’t know where I’m going tomorrow.”

At least he worried about his past and his future both, unlike Hawke and Isabela, always so very determined to live in the present.

But he had such an embarrassment of riches, two separate places willing to take him in, his city or his church, and on the one hand he seemed singularly ungrateful, two possible destinies when she couldn’t even salvage one for her people, and he was stuck on worrying rather than doing.

But she knew quite a few people who would prefer she was still considering her options rather than having chosen the one she did, so perhaps he had cause.  She wasn’t able to give up her people’s past to stay on as First, and that hurt, again, every morning she didn’t get to see Marethari, so perhaps …

Perhaps waiting and working with Hawke made more sense than she’d given him credit for having.

Not that she was particularly good at recognizing sense herself; either for herself, or seeing it in other people.

And Isabela thought sense a waste of a good time, so she wasn’t the one to ask.

In fact, the person she’d generally ask about someone else’s sense was Sebastian himself, and wasn’t that a bit of a surprise?

Former First, forever dalish, and her best friends were both  _shem,_  a pirate and a former priest.

Well, not quite priest, they only let their women be priests.

Which was odd, from everything she’d seen, they didn’t have much use for their women anywhere else unless they were properly married or good enough at fighting to be scary, like Aveline or Isabela.

_All my friends are human? Plus one dwarf?_

There was something a bit wrong with that story, somewhere.  She’d have to see if Varric could make it sound better when he told it.


	11. trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [metriculous](http://metriculous.tumblr.com/) prompted: "Sebastian/Isabela/Merrill, is a threesome enough of a kink? If not: blindfolds"
> 
> Which seemed like a splendid idea. Though I added some Fenris.

One of Merrill's favorite things about fucking Sebastian was the _view_.  Such a pretty man, so tall, so strong, so pleased to succumb to the touch of her fingers against his skin.

The way the muscles across his stomach shivered when she stroked his cock, the lift of his chest when she straddled him, the way his eyelids almost closed, slow and heavy, when he curled his finger inside her and watched her gasp, the twist in his neck and the clench in his jaw when she started to push her fingers or her favorite toy up inside his arse, the stretch of skin across the back of his hands when he spread his fingers wide across her hips or thighs, the curve of his spine and the gasp of his breath when she dipped her head between his legs.

Of course she only ever managed fleeting glimpses of these things, between kisses and the usual shadows of their rooms, distracted by skin and lips and the catch of calloused fingertips, lost in sensation, in the way a slow warm night together made her skin hot and her eyes almost too heavy to open, the way a quick hard tussle made her breath flee as her eyes rolled back and her vision blurred.

She wanted a better view some day, some night, a chance to take a step back and just  _watch._

* * *

He liked to play with her ears, trailing fingers, licks, kisses, nibbles, a gentle suck of the tip until her toes curled and her skin flushed and she pulled him down so she could kiss him back.

He liked her breasts, to lick up the soft swell to the nipple, to take as much as he could into his mouth, a push of tongue and a long, hard suck, until her back arched and her fingers dug into his shoulders and the skin went taut and her nipples were impossibly, painfully hard, and she cried out his name, soft and high, her voice thin with pleasure, breath caught tight in her throat until the final delicate scrape of teeth made her shudder and gasp, a rush of heat from her chest filling her body as she sagged with relief.

He liked to kiss her fingertips, one after the other, and sometimes she'd laugh, and his smile would widen and his eyes would brighten, and sometimes she would slide one finger between his lips, and his eyes would close and his lips would tighten and his tongue would stroke against her skin and she would curl her finger just enough to let her nail tease along the top of his mouth, and he would make such a _sound,_ a low ragged hum that caught against her hand, and somehow they would both start falling apart, hot heavy breaths and staring into each others eyes, wide and dark and wanting, and she'd slide her finger out with a pop of releasing tension and they'd skip right on past any of their usual forms of play because he was already hard and she was aching and she'd spread her legs and they'd fuck right there against the closest wall or piece of furniture or across sheets already warm and creased from the first round.

It made her wonder what it had been like, before his vows, when he had been with men.  What he'd look like now with a cock, hot and heavy and hard, filling his mouth, if his eyes would close and he'd lean in, liking the weight, the taste, needing it more than air, the tight grip of his fingers and the shift across his shoulders as he held his lover tight.  If he'd _hum_ , and if it would make men shudder like it always did her.

* * *

She liked to wander quietly into the room when he was reading, not quite latching the door behind her, stepping softly and slowly, closer and closer, until he shifted, moving the book to the side, the slightest smile curving the side of his mouth when he caught the hint of her movement out of the corner of his eye.  

She would climb into his lap, let her nose rub slowly up his neck, breath warm and teasing against his skin until she reached his ear.

"Read to me?"

And he'd oblige, voice slow and soothing, lingering over the words even as his free arm slid around her, holding her close.

She'd start out gentle, kisses against his jaw, hands settling against his chest, listening as each breath between phrases grew longer, deeper, lifting him up beneath her touch.  She'd grasp his earlobe between her teeth, pull, just a little, just enough to make his breath catch in the middle of a word.  She'd lean in closer, barely enough room for her arms between them as her hands slid down his chest, pressing against muscles gone taut across his stomach until he had to stop speaking entirely to gasp.  

When his voice began to tremble, she would shift her weight at last, feel the hardening length of his cock beneath his trousers pressing up against her arse, or her thighs, or sometimes, if she spread her legs wide enough, leaning forward against his chest, she'd rub  _just right,_  the edge of a seam pressed against her clit, layers of cloth failing to hide the heat between them, the pleasure of his body beneath her.

Sometimes he'd manage to keep reading, or at least talking, the words themselves unimportant compared to the edge of his voice against her senses.

Sometimes that was enough to send her over the edge, eyes closing as she clung to him, riding out the wave of pleasure before she pushed skirts and trousers and smalls out of the way, wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock and squeezed, just a little, until the book was forgotten and he whispered her name, pleading.

She always made him wait 'til he asked, that catch of need breaking through his voice.  Only then would she lower herself on his lap, take him deep inside, hot and hard, filling her until she threw her head back, fingers digging in until she could feel the tremble in his muscles, hear the tight whisper of his breath, the tension as he held himself still heating the very air against her skin.

She would clench around him, shift up, and down, teasing them both, feeling him shiver, and still he'd be silent, taut and waiting.  And she would think about the door behind them, the spread of her skirts across his lap, the feel of cloth rubbing against her skin, against him, the heat of his hands scalding even through her blouse.  Completely covered, both of them, nothing on display if someone did wander by that door, and yet entirely indecent.

"Now," she'd whisper, eyes still closed, and she'd feel the groan in his chest as his lap lifted beneath her, and his hands pulled her in tighter and she rolled her hips even closer, their efforts pushing him so far inside she gasped, too full to breathe, to think, and she'd feel his teeth against her skin, kisses along her neck, her jaw, his tongue in her mouth or gliding up her ears, and his hips would drop, then lift, again,  _again,_  her body shuddering against his chest, and she would have to bite her lip to muffle her voice as she came, hot and white and shocking in the darkness behind her eyelids.

Sometimes she would pull him along with her, sometimes he would keep going, each shift of his hips rubbing his cock inside her, and she could never keep still then, squirming, whispering, telling him how good he felt, his body, his voice, how much she loved him, wanted him, _yes, yes, thank the Creators, yes, Sebastian, ma vhenan._

She loved the way his fingers curled just before he came, the way he pulled her even closer before he lost himself and spilled inside her.

She loved the feel of him, softening inside her, their bodies settling together, closer, warmer. She loved the feel of his nose against her neck, his breath against her jaw, lips and teeth traveling along her ear until she shivered, until she whined, until it was her turn to whisper, _please_.

And then, _Creators have mercy_ , he'd hum against her skin, and she couldn't even manage another please, she could feel every brush of cloth against her skin, every press of his hands, the shift of his legs beneath her, the hard line of his chest as he braced her weight against him. He'd lift and fall, both at once, until he was on his knees, lowering her to the floor, one last nip along her jaw, the slide of hands down her sides, her hips, until he could lift her skirt and duck down between her thighs.

He'd always start with a tease, his breath against her skin, a slow lick along the crease of her thigh, before he'd let his mouth settle where they both so desperately wanted him, her breath a whine as her hips lifted up against his lips, the devastating hum of his voice thrumming through her body again as he kissed, and licked, and sucked, pressed so tight against her she could feel the shift of his chin, each breath through his nose, shifted again until his skin was the slightest tease, warm and fleeting, his tongue gently circling around, around, then deep inside her, again, again, as if he could drown within her, and count it the best possible use of his life.

Sometimes she'd come again, shockingly fast, hard and taut and bright, a curve of spine and a locked throat, silent and almost painful. Sometimes her body would shiver, slow and hot, muscles jerking and a whine slowly building until she cried out, long and loud and wordless, bucking up against him, clawing at the rug, or his shoulders, or grabbing his hair until he had to stop, neck curving up to follow the tight grip of her fingers, still close enough she could feel his breath, rough and heavy against her skin as she came, and came, and came.

Sometimes he'd be hard again by the time he was done tasting her, and he'd lift himself up her body, kiss her hard and deep, until she could taste them both on his tongue, her slick, his seed, their bodies, mingled, inside her cunt, her mouth, and she'd moan into his mouth as his cock slid inside her again, rough and ruthless, hard thrusts as he chased his own pleasure, using her as she most wanted to be used, sometimes bruising the backs of her hips with the force of their impact against the floor beneath them, and always she would beg, and thank him, and wrap her legs around him, lift up to meet him, clench around him, try to make him come as hard and fast as possible, to fill her as his hips jerked and he groaned, too far gone to even say her name.

Sometimes, though, the feel of her, the taste of her, her orgasm against his mouth, was all he wanted, all he'd needed, and he'd sigh against her skin, and lift his head enough to watch her eyes blink, and her chest lift as she breathed, and then he'd rest his head back down again, upon her leg or her stomach, and she'd let her fingers move slowly through his hair, nails just barely brushing against his skin, and her heart would ache more than her hips ever did, at how beautiful he was, her Sebastian.

It was on just such a day, warm and quiet, no sound beyond their breathing, that she first asked. Because she could never see him properly when he rode her pleasure, lost in her own echoes, and she wanted to. Wanted to watch, wanted to see. Wanted to know what it did to him, as clearly as she could feel what it did to her.

She wanted to know if he'd let her watch him with someone else. Someone they trusted, of course, someone respectful, someone who would listen to her, as she told them what to do to him.

They talked about it several times, after that. About monogamy. About the difference between what she was asking, and the way he'd used himself and others when he was young. About expectations, and rules, and safe words, and trust. And love. It was patently ridiculous, how much she loved the stupid pretty _shemlen_. That seemed, at last, to be all the answer either of them needed.

* * *

Sebastian never asked who she had invited. He just smiled at her, a glint of blue and a soft curve of lip, and then she hid his pretty eyes behind a blindfold, as he'd requested, and he lowered himself gracefully to his knees in the center of the room. She felt a pang low in her stomach, half heat, half gratitude, and unlocked the door in anticipation of their guests.

Even without asking, he probably knew who was coming. There weren't very many people who qualified: trustworthy, liable to be interested in sex, and equally respectful of their boundaries. Merrill rather hoped he'd be pleasantly surprised by the fact they had both said yes, rather than just one, but that was the extent of the surprise she had planned. Everything else they'd talked about. She knew precisely how far he was willing to go.

He hadn't been particularly restless, but she saw the slight shift of his weight still completely at the sound of two sets of footsteps. His head tilted, for just a moment, and then his shoulders eased, perfectly relaxed, and she smiled to herself as she locked the door again. She was already feeling pleasantly warm in anticipation. She was quite sure it was going to be a lovely night.

Isabela was all hands, mussing hair and slipping beneath skin to find hair, the slightest edge of nails to make Sebastian shiver.

Fenris kissed him first, bending down while Sebastian was still on his knees, and there was something in the line of Sebastian's throat as his head tilted back, the shift of weight on his knees as he stretched up, that satisfied an ache in Merrill's heart she had never realized was there, that caught in her throat and made it hard to breathe, that made her legs push together as her fingers dug into the arms of her chair.

She wasn't participating, after all.  She was directing, she was watching, and if for one moment she lost control, she'd lose her perfect unobstructed view, would miss how beautiful Sebastian looked, succumbing to her desires.

So she told them what to do, how to kiss him, how to strip him, how to ride him and fuck him and take him apart, how to put him back together so they could do it again.

Her skin felt almost raw beneath her clothes, her fingers sore from the pressure of her grip, the embroidery on the chair arms catching beneath her nails, her smalls gone damp and clinging against her sex, her breath a tight whisper between her lips as she forced herself not to indulge the heat between her thighs, to ignore the throb of her clit, the clench of her muscles, the desperate ache beneath her stomach and across her hips.

The show was worth it.

She adored the sounds they made, skin and sweat and slick and moans, Isabela's rich laughter and Fenris' soft wordless growl and the gasp of Sebastian's every ragged breath.

She adored the smell, the smoky undertone of the fire as it slowly collapsed to coals, the tang of sweat and sex and musk and the spill of human and elvhen seed, the lingering hints of soap and oil and salve reacting to over-heated skin.

She adored the lines of their bodies.  The way Fenris would tense and curve as he neared his release, fingers clenching and shoulders hunched, the muscles in his thighs visibly tightening beneath his brands, until at least, when he came, his whole body would open wide, a curve of spine and a release of breath and she shivered with an echo of his joy.  The way Isabela leaned in to every touch, followed every shift of her partners' bodies, took their weight and let them take hers, the way her eyes flashed and her teeth caught the light with every smile, every nip against a man's skin, every sigh, every encouraging whisper.

And oh, her Sebastian was lovely, the way he bent before them, lifted up beneath them, the shift of muscle in his wrists and shoulders and thighs, the way his whole body followed each press of lips, each flick of tongue, the sound of his hum when his head dipped between Isabela's thighs, the way his fingers dug into Fenris' hips to pull himself ever closer.

The way Fenris threw back his head when Sebastian took his cock between his lips, the shadow of his lashes against his cheeks, the way his fingers paused, settling almost gently against Sebastian's hair in contrast to the sharp jerk of his hips as Sebastian slid Fenris deeper into his mouth, the broken gasp accompanying the shift of Sebastian's jaw that probably meant he was pushing up with his tongue.

Merrill almost lost control right then and there, the thought of Sebastian's lips, of his tongue sliding inside her, of the heavy hot weight of his cock in her mouth, of the burn down her throat when he came, memory and imagination combining to make her cry out, short and sharp, and her hips buck up in her chair.

Sebastian shuddered at the sound, and Fenris let out one final aching groan, low and rough, and she watched the shift of Sebastian's throat as he swallowed. 

Her voice was rough, after that, a tremble in her stomach she couldn't quite contain, couldn't quite suppress, and it didn't take much longer for their exertions to wind down, until three tired bodies were pressed together, softly now, the slightest brush of fingers, chests lifting with shared breaths.

Merrill watched them rest, for awhile, the remnants of the fire casting a red glow across their skin, making Fenris' lyrium look almost soft, for once, as warm as the thick dark fall of Isabela's hair, the curve of Sebastian's fingers as his thumb rubbed against Fenris' arm, as he turned his head towards the warmth beside him, and brushed his nose against the side of Isabela's breast.

Eventually they moved, and their guests wrapped themselves in the barest minimum of clothing, and Isabela pressed one soft kiss to Merrill's lips, and they slipped away to their own rooms.

Merrill felt old when she stood up, sore and tense, with too much heat trapped beneath her skin, each breath difficult and shallow.  She stretched, and curled her toes, and was almost surprised she'd didn't creak more than the floor when she finally stepped forward, passing through the dim flickering shadows until she reached Sebastian.

When she leaned in close she could smell Isabela and Fenris on his skin, when she kissed him she could taste them, feel them in the slide of his tongue, and she had to lift her head and bite her lip at the pang of heat that shivered through her.  She took off his blindfold, and smoothed back his hair, and he blinked, and met her eyes, and she was afraid her heart was going to stop completely. 

There was the smallest, brightest ring of blue she'd ever seen circling huge dark pupils, and his whole face moved slowly, as sweet and thick as honey, until the edge of his mouth curled up, just a little, just enough.

_Just for me._

"Your turn?" Sebastian's voice was rough and raspy, almost as good as the caress promised by the lift of his eyebrow, by the hand he reached out towards her.

Merrill smiled.  "If you insist."


	12. roused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time I Sebrill feels all over poor lovely [Cori](http://yarnandteaisallineed.tumblr.com). Modern AU meta: [part 1](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/54753513127), [part 2](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/56263406545). (Basically grad students, unexpected friends, lots of sex ... so I attempted to write a scene of this particular AU in the vague and probably vain hope of getting them out of my head to help give some of the other voices some room.)

Merrill had been sitting at the table for too long.  She knew that, could feel the knot between her shoulder blades, the ache low in her back, but she kept telling herself just one more page, and then she'd be done, then she'd take a break, get some sleep, _when was the last time I ate anything besides coffee and stale chips?_

But it was just so fascinating, and she'd never gotten her hands on some of this source material before, and it was all slightly different than any of the other translations she'd seen, and just one more page, and she shifted her notebook to the side and pulled the dictionary closer and squinted at the beginning of the line, blurring into the edge of the illumination, _is that a q?_

Sebastian's hand trailed against her shoulder, and she couldn't help the sigh as her eyes closed, as her muscles attempted to relax for just a moment, before giving it up for a lost cause and returning to their previous state of tension.

"You need rest."

"Just one more page."

"You said that hours ago.  And hours before that, as well."  He leaned in close, his words a slow warm breath against her ear, and his soft kiss against the very tip made her whole body shudder, but she shook her head, feeling her braids tapping against his cheek.

"Just a little longer."

He huffed out a breath, almost sharp against her skin, but he stepped away without another word.

And then he took away her mug and her bag of chips, and she reached out a hand into the air, an awkward blind stretch and a whine in her throat as she tried to pull them back.

"They're empty."

She blinked, finally lifting her face from the book to look at him, and there was a twist of humor to his mouth, a lilt to his voice, so however aggravating she was at the moment he was apparently going to forgive her anyways.  "Thank you?"

He shook his head with a snort and turned around.

_Just one more page._

She'd almost forgotten about the interruption completely a moment later, _maybe it's a thorn, not a q at all?  This copy is dreadful quality ..._ and had completely lost track of the hour by the time she turned to look at her  _one_ more page, nevermind the one after that.

Or the one after that.

And her eyes were starting to burn and her handwriting had devolved into a scrawl that she wasn't sure she'd be able to read when she took a look at it again later, but she couldn't seem to stop,  _just one more letter, one more word, one more page, one more twist to a story I thought I knew..._

She rubbed her hand under her nose, vaguely noticing the smear of ink along the heel of her hand, sniffing once as her hand dropped again ... and blinked.

She smelled coffee.

_No._

She leaned back in her chair, back and back, feeling it recline with an old plaintive squeak, stretching her neck as far as it would go until she was staring straight up at the skylight.  It hadn't been cleaned in all the time she'd had this particular tiny apartment.  It was  too high to reach from the inside and the maintenance company the owner had hired for the building obviously felt it too unimportant to bother with from the outside either, and years of neglect had left it a vaguely milky gritty sort of color, too opaque to see the sky or the clouds or the stars, but still it was good at catching the light, a dim grey glow when it was overcast, vaguely orange when it was hazy, almost white on a nice bright summer day, and what she usually considered a surprisingly hopeful shade of pink at dawn.

It was pink.

_Shit._

She didn't move, still staring at the glow of light captured in the ceiling above her, as if glaring would somehow make it change.

It didn't.

She moaned, and let herself fall forward, her forehead hitting the table with a dull thud, a slight whisper of paper shifting around her.

There was a soft laugh somewhere above her head, and before she could manage a rude gesture at his absolute (if completely reasonable) lack of sympathy, she felt the press of his hands moving down her neck and back, and she sighed with relief instead.

"Ungh," she managed, when he reached the knot between her shoulder blades.

"Is that a  _press harder_ grunt?"

"Mmm."

His fingers dug in, and she sighed, the line of her body slumping further down between the table and the chair.  He understood wordless grunts. Sebastian really was rather nice to have around, especially first thing in the morning.

Plus he really did have spectacular hands, and she moaned again as they shifted a bit further down her back.

"Coffee?" He leaned in close enough to murmur against her ear, breath warm and slow, and her fingers curled against the table in response, her nostrils flaring with her next breath.  "Or do you want to try and get some sleep?"

She could feel the warmth of his chest just beyond her shoulders, and the knot beneath his fingers simply gave out, her whole body hot and loose and shuddering, " _fuck."_

His fingers stilled, resting against her, his body so far away, too far, even with just his arms between them.  "Was that a good or bad reaction?"

She smiled, though she knew he couldn't see it, he would probably hear it in her voice, stretching her shoulders and curving her back to push up against his hands.  "That was a request."

"Ohhh."  He turned his head, his nose just brushing against the skin behind her ear, his hands sliding until they curved around her hips, fingers digging in just a bit before they lifted, encouraging her out of her chair.  "You need to stand up then."

She followed the shift of his arms, laughed against the papers beneath her arms at the sound of the legs scraping as he kicked the chair out of the way, his hands never leaving her hips.

Her laugh broke into a groan at the heat of his legs behind her, against her, the slide of his hand beneath the hem of her over-sized shirt to find and trace the edge of her panties.

She'd thought she'd have to stand up properly, had been thinking of taking him to bed, but this, this was better, this was what she wanted, what she needed, the rub of his hand between her legs until her hips were curving, the cotton beneath his fingers becoming damp and clingy, her fingers curving against the table as her breath grew short and heavy, his name caught behind her tongue as she bit her lip, as he nipped along her neck, her ears, whispered her name against her skin.

Her toes curled when he made her come apart, a sharp breath past her throat as her skin shivered and her muscles stretched, quick and tingling.

Her second orgasm was a completely different sort of feeling, deep and hard and tight until the final release made her tremble.

It took its time coming, after a quick struggle to drop her underwear and his waistband, the quick fumble for a condom before the shock of the heat of him inside her, almost pain in that first hard thrust subsiding into pleasure, the heavy weight of anticipation building with each slide of his cock, his hips hard behind her, pushing hard, pushing deep, until her hands had to grab the edge of the table to stop herself from sliding across it, until she forgot how to think, how to breathe, how to feel anything beyond Sebastian filling her, again, again, until it almost hurt, and she almost begged, until her eyes rolled back and her heart almost stopped and it was too good to bear and she clenched around him, pleasure rolling through her until her knees almost gave way, and she was only held up by the table and his hands and his cock still buried inside her.

She heard herself whimper and whisper as the angle changed, quick sharp thrusts prolonging the shudders through her body until she felt his rhythm break, his breath stutter, and his fingers dug in even harder as he came.

They breathed together, for just a bit, his chest warm and heavy against her back, and then he stepped away, and she heard her breath sigh at the feel of him sliding out of her.

Someday, when they'd been together a bit longer, when they'd had a talk or two about  _what if's,_ she wanted to stay like that for as long as she could, to feel them pressed together, to feel him soften inside her.

But that rather defeated the purpose of the condom, and they weren't there.

Not quite yet.

_Maybe tomorrow?_  

She laughed to herself, more breath than sound, but it was still enough he heard her as he returned, as he slid his hands down her sides and encouraged her up, and she went, though she could feel herself listing sideways against his chest, and he was probably supporting more of her weight than she was.

"Hmm?" A wordless question as his nose pressed against her hair, and she tilted her head back until she could see more of the world than the stretch of a grey t-shirt across his shoulder.

"If that's what I get for pulling an all-nighter, I'm going to have to do it more often."


	13. affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [teadrinkingdragon](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/87327722223) prompted: "Maybe some Sebastian and Merrill just being super sweet to each other for no reason?"

]He wished to shower her in affection, in gifts and presents and soft touches to lighten the load of their lives, but she never did want for  _things._   Too light on her feet, figuratively and literally, to ever wish to be weighed down.

Food she ate, but never really lingered over, and she wasn’t particularly fond of the elaborate sweets they’d used to give back in his days at Court anyways.  Flowers didn’t help either, because she’d much rather leave them where they were to  _live_ than to admire them for the short span of days they kept after they were picked.  (Unless they were medicinal, and then they were no longer a sweet indulgence and had become  _practical_ , and that defeated the whole purpose.)

He just wished to make sure she never forgot to laugh.  She had the sweetest laugh, after all, light and bright and always vaguely startled, as if she’d forgotten the sound herself, in her day to day push forwards through life.

Isabela was wonderful at making her laugh.

He was less so.

So he had to settle for what he could do, instead.

Whenever it was quiet, he would tell her stories.  Nothing like Varric’s or Isabela’s adventures, of course.  Older stories.  Softer, usually.  Though not always.  Chantry tales and Starkhaven lore, nursery tales and songs, even the bits and pieces of tavern gossip he’d picked up, here or there.  

Eventually she would still, and her eyes would close, and he’d let his fingers trace the curve of her neck, or the strong line of her spine, until she smiled.

She’d return the favor, once all was dark and still, slim strong fingers finding every knot, every hint of tension he’d ever carried in his shoulders, and when she was done, her breath soft against his skin, he knew they both were eased.

And happy.

Perhaps they didn’t either of them need gifts at all; just, at last, each other’s company.


End file.
